


Even Memories Fade

by annephoenix



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:51:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5196356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annephoenix/pseuds/annephoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When all hope is lost, only memories remain. But maybe sometimes one shouldn’t be willing to relinquish one’s hope so easily… </p>
<p>First posted/started in 2002. My only unfinished work :(.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even Memories Fade

Title: Even Memories fade

Author: Anne Phoenix

Rating: R

Pairings: Harry/Draco, Harry/Lucius, Harry/Death Eaters

Summary: When all hope is lost, only memories remain. But maybe sometimes one shouldn’t be willing to relinquish one’s hope so easily…

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

*** 

 

Even Memories fade --- Prologue

 

Blood had long left the veins, leaving the skin translucent and ethereal. No one had bothered closing the eyelids. During the initial rigor mortis, green eyes had gazed stoically at the skies – hard to believe that their light had been stolen. At dawn, the transfixed expression of shock had been ruptured by the sinking of lifeless eyeballs, white and glazed within the loosening skin of the face. The body looked strangely flask in these final moments before the ultimate putrefaction.

 

White skin, white lips parted in interrupted existence, white wounds… bled dry.

 

White clothes, even, flecked with crimson memories of life.

 

In its final resting place, the dagger still triumphantly stood, tilting slightly as cells broke down one by one beneath its weight. Long after soft tissues would be gone, long after even bones would be reduced to dust, the dagger would lay in this place, sole memorial of a timeless grave.

 

In contradistinction to the unearthly paleness of the body, the black shock of hair still tangled around wildly the head, untameable in death as it had been in life. Unfavoured by bacteria and maggots, the hair would join bones and dagger for a while before wafting away with the winds…

 

As unloved in death as in his worst nightmares…

 

Within days, the corpse would be alive again, unrecognisable in the midst of maggots and scavengers, devoured and digested to once more be injected into the circle of life… Already the air was beginning to smell peculiar… repulsive to some, attractive to others…

 

Buzz buzz of hungry insects…

 

Hard to imagine the final moments of the young man… struggling so futilely against forces stronger than him. Wrists entwined in metal, neck nearly snapping from resisting the chain leading him through the forest.

 

Arms… pushing, touching… His eyes widened, and he twisted in frantic writhing as he realised there would be no escape this time. Hysterical laughter in the face of the enemy.

 

Held down by relentless strength, pressing his limbs into the moist ground, riding out his bucks with venomous glee…

 

So many curses used, so many humiliations, but death was a personal matter.

 

Hope wilted when the dagger first broke through his torso, a sickening tearing sound resonating up to his ears from within. Until that time-freezing moment, everything could have changed. He could have escaped, have been rescued… After that moment, he was condemned to stare in disbelief at the damage inflicted by the silver blade… gradually disconnecting from pain and reality. Four times it struck. He could feel it, hear it, stabbing through vital organs and slicing the flow of life as surely as a tourniquet.

 

As he lay dying, eager tongues lapped at the spilling blood, sucking up hot death and nuzzling against cooling skin. He would have closed his eyes and turned his head aside to die in peace, but all nervous system command had long withered away, random electrical impulses causing the twitching of arbitrary muscles, starved heart mechanically fighting to keep up the rhythm of life, but failing monumentally. He was left helpless to stare at the ebbing sight of the last slice of moon… unable to cry, unable to say goodbye…

 

Death took him like sleep… alone as in his worst nightmares.

 

Left in the forest clearing to decompose whilst the enemy celebrated their victory and digested his blood.

 

Dust to dust.

 

A day in the sun had quickly expelled the rigor mortis, stiffness giving way to melting muscles. Skin did not shiver in the cooling twilight, painfully driving home the sharp contrast between life and death.

 

One by one the stars lit up upon the black canopy of a moonless night. They shone ferociously, somehow aggressive in their brilliance. Centaurs in the forbidden forest took one look at the sky and ran for cover. The elements were angry… furious! Not even a centaur can bear the reading of such bleak tidings.

 

Alone in the faraway forest clearing, the corpse began to glow, a golden sheen engulfing the remains of the sacrificed hero…

 

Maybe it was a trick of the light, or maybe the green eyes blinked in wonder? Impossible to know, because the clearing was suddenly alight with large red and golden flames… a giant spontaneous pyre. Tears were wiped from mourning eyes as alone he burned.

 

No sickly smells of roasting human flesh, no explosive flash of burning hair… nothing but the steady crackle of a healthy fire…

 

Ashes to ashes.

 

A prophecy had been fulfilled.

 

***

TO BE CONTINUED 

 

Back to index  
Chapter 1 by Anne Phoenix

 

Even Memories Fade --- Chapter 1 

 

In a perfect world, people don’t die before a ripe old age and they are certainly never murdered. In a perfect world, young men and women are not forced to yield their weapons and march to predetermined defeat at war. In a perfect world, there is no Voldemort; there are no Death Eaters.

 

Draco gritted his teeth, and readjusted the grip of his sweaty palm on the ebony wand.

 

In a perfect world, a young Malfoy would be the centrepiece attraction of a dinner party, delicately sipping a 1996 Moët et Chandon rosé from a crystal flute whilst making small talk to a pathetically sycophantic audience… he wouldn’t be grimy and blood spattered and clothed in tatty discoloured robes; he wouldn’t be mentally preparing for yet another draining encounter with Voldemort’s forces that he was more than likely not to leave alive.

 

Draco didn’t believe in war. He believed in the finer things of life. If he had believed in war, he might have found himself on the other team, snarling in anticipation of torturing and killing yet another field of innocents, rather than glancing nervously toward Hermione to make sure she was in position to cover his back.

 

Fighting for peace.

 

Draco wiped his brow with the back of his stained sleeve. It wouldn’t do to dwell on the futility of such ridiculous notions just before a very real battle. Of course one could fight for peace. Peace and democracy… Some things are worth fighting for. Dying for. Passive resistance would only get them all killed.

 

Cricking his neck and rolling his shoulders back several times, Draco fell into a crouching duelling pose. The enemy had arrived, and who was he kidding? They weren’t fighting for peace, they were fighting for their lives, and that was that.

 

Hearing the signal, he raised his wand and started his advance.

 

 

***

 

Fighting against Voldemort’s army of Dementors and Death Eaters was no laughing matter. If your back was uncovered for even one moment, the cold soul-sucking stench of Dementors would invade you, stifling like a rotting corpse, attacking from within to cleanse your mind of happiness before pressing their gaping mauls to your lips for the coup de grace. Draco had seen too many powerful witches and wizards reduced to drained and drooling wraiths. It made him pathetically grateful that his assigned partner for this battle was Hermione Granger, almost certainly one of the most dependable and better-trained witches on the field.

 

With poise, Draco advanced through the swarms of Dementors, safe in the knowledge that Hermione’s tawny owl Patronius would drive away any that ventured too close. He needed pay them no heed, so grey eyes remained focused on the human attackers beyond. A hasty sideways glance confirmed that the rest of Dumbledore’s army followed the same strategy, as planned… they had to reach the Death Eaters without too many causalities in order to even stand a fighting chance!

 

Draco ducked as an emerald green curse came his way. He didn’t worry too much; if it had actually been aimed at him, Hermione would have been quick to deflect it. Nevertheless, his proximity to the Death Eaters meant that he would be one of the first to break the ranks. Didn’t that mean certain death? As though in answer, another stray curse exploded against the floor, dangerously close to his feet. Toes curling with apprehension, Draco halted and waited for Hermione to catch up. Only desolate brown grass separated them from Voldemort’s army now.

 

“Ok?” he asked, shaky voice betraying his fear and worry. She nodded curtly and jabbed a thumb backwards to indicate that they had stepped out of the Dementor’s reach.

 

Thank Merlin for small mercies.

 

Voldemort could force those monsters to fight for him, but he had been obliged to put a repelling charm on all his treasured Death Eaters in order to protect them from their own overeager allies. Its force protected anyone within twenty meters of the Death Eaters… Too damn close for comfort.

 

“Now or never,” Hermione abruptly hissed, snapping Draco back to reality. He smiled bitterly and suddenly felt like squeezing her hand... good luck or good-bye, what difference did it make?

 

“Let’s go.”

 

One last deep look and they were running side-by-side into the killing range of the enemy, wands at the ready, minds torn between protection spells and Unforgivables.

 

In this war, there was no time for torture, no time for grandiose duels or fancy magic… No time for anything but killing and, ultimately, dying. The dominant colour of the battle was green, but the colour of hope had long ago come to symbolise despair and death, its splendour emanating from the battlefield as true as the screams of the wounded and the wails of the empty.

 

Strategy fell to dust as every offensive action of the Light became laboured beneath the timeless onslaught. One by one, Dumbledore’s followers were destroyed all around Draco, blood gushing thickly from mouths and noses as various gruesome curses finished them off.

 

Draco realised he was being sucked further and further into the ranks of the Death Eaters, unable to turn away as the spells shot at him from all sides. He also knew he was getting separated from Hermione, could hear her frantically calling his name between valiant attempts to fend off his attackers… but she was well behind now, far too far to stop the red curse that hit him squarely in the back and spread icily through his limbs, making them freeze until he could not longer move. He vaguely heard a familiar laugh from behind a white mask, but then knew no more as he pitched forward into the mud.

 

Hermione’s scream of anguish could be heard across the entire field, drawing the looks of many, smug and pitiful alike… Biting her tongue sharply, she forced herself to concentrate, knowing that however little she liked it, if she wanted to survive, she would have to leave Draco where he lay facedown. Casting a powerful protego to ward herself from curses, she started jogging along the outskirts of the battle in order to join another bereaved partner. She would not give up now. They had all sworn they would rather die than surrender; now they had to make true that vow.

 

***

 

What surprised Draco the most was that he could still hear the ear-splitting, heart-wrenching sounds of war. He had always thought that death would be silent and peaceful. But it wasn’t, so he resigned himself to listen. He listened as the fighting reached a climax, for a while no individual voice distinguishable amid the cacophonic chaos, and he was still listening when everything abruptly calmed down. In the distance, someone was ordering a retreat. With that deep rumbling voice, it could have been Mad-eye Moody. Or of course, it could have been a lucky survivor who had already screamed himself hoarse. Either way, it made Draco inwardly smile – at least this time there would be survivors…

 

Draco would probably have lain in the mud forever had not the sharp kick of a dragonhide boot into his ribs rolled him over painfully. Air was forced into his lungs, drawing his realisation to the fact that he was still breathing and thus, by definition, still alive.

 

His eyes flew open in shock and he stared up fearfully. The Death Eater was pulling the white mask away from his face, white-blond hair falling down onto broad straight shoulders.

 

“You’ve been rather naughty, Draco”, his father drawled, false pity flooding his tone.

 

Draco turned his eyes aside, taking in a beetle’s view of the massacre. However brown and dead the once grassy field had looked before, it was much worse now… tainted crimson and littered with corpses. He could even make out a Dementor lying dead among the slain.

 

“Didn’t know Dementors could be killed,” he whispered, turning back to his father.

 

Lucius Malfoy gave a small cruel smile. “Everything dies, son. But now it is time to go home.”

 

Draco would have laughed hysterically had he any strength left. Instead he allowed a small hitched sob to surface before bringing up his hands to cover his face. He knew his father was still talking. Had no idea what the bastard was saying. Something about how Draco should be grateful of Voldemort’s infinite mercy or some similar propaganda. Draco rubbed his bloodshot eyes with dirty fingers, all thoughts of escape evaporating when Lucius suddenly dropped the golden coin onto his stomach and muttered the incantation that made the portkey take him home.

 

***

TO BE CONTINUED

 

Back to index  
Chapter 2 by Anne Phoenix

 

Even Memories Fade --- Chapter 2 

 

“Anyone?”

 

The sound echoed eerily through the darkness, bouncing against invisible obstacles to return to the safety of his ears.

 

Harry shivered miserably. Where was he? Last thing he knew, the cold had been creeping through his system, ice replacing blood as the latter slowly leaked from the stab wounds in his chests. He remembered the tongues, lapping, sucking… demanding more. Surely there was no way he could have survived such injuries?

 

Harry shivered again and hugged the fleece tightly. It had been there, draped over his shoulders when he woke up a few moments ago, and was now his only source of comfort in this cold and dark place. He was evidently alone – wasn’t he always? 

 

A sudden screech through the darkness made him jump, fear making him hypersensitive to the dying reverberations of the sound. Maybe a bird? It was so cold, Harry just wanted to curl up and drift away, but something was telling him to stay awake, to wait… He balled up his fists to calm shaking nerves and froze. It was wrong. It was all wrong… He clenched his fists tighter, digging sharp little nails into the palms of his hands, and then closed his eyes attentively.

 

Nothing… But there should have been…

 

Very slowly, Harry slipped his hands beneath the fleece and placed them over the left side of his ribcage. Oh Merlin…

 

The screech resounded again, startling him once more, and although the same rush of fear seemed to flow through him, Harry could find no cause for it, for his heart rate did not accelerate, did not change. In fact his heart did not beat at all. It was only then that Harry fully realised and understood that he had indeed not survived those injuries. He was completely and utterly dead.

 

When the screech came again, Harry was expecting it. Rather than jumping out of his skin, he tried to orient towards the sound, using all the cues carried by the echoes to locate its origin. Still shivering against the cold, Harry pushed himself to his feet, feeling ridiculously naked and vulnerable in the scanty fleece. He stuck out his hands in front of him and started blindly walking, slowly, carefully, in the direction of the noise.

 

The ground beneath Harry’s feet felt rough against his bare soles, but there seemed to be nothing else filling the blackness. Harry started singing to himself in a trembling voice, hoping against hope to warm the atmosphere a little. Maybe this was death? Dumbledore had said death was but the start of another great adventure, so maybe this was yet another lonely stage in his miserable existence?

 

Harry sang louder, hating the false ring of his voice’s tone through the emptiness… but hating the silence even more.

 

“You!”

 

This time, Harry nearly did jump out of his skin. His song caught in his throat, and he spun around wildly, trying to find the origin of the croaky voice. Behind him shone a dim veil of light that had most certainly not been there two minutes ago. He took one guarded step towards it.

 

“You!” the voice repeated, less loud, less croaky, and more directive.

 

“Me?” Harry ventured shakily, squinting into the dim light and jumping back sharply when a large albino crow stepped out of the light as though it were a doorway. Red eyes focused on him thoughtfully. “Yes, you,” the crow finally cawed with an assertive nod of its bleached beak.

 

Harry could not find it within him to respond. He stared, open-mouthed, at the bird, wondering why years at Wizarding School had not yet prepared him for this sort of surprise. The crow waited for a moment before shaking its head with exasperation.

 

“You’re dead,” it declared, but before Harry could respond, it quickly added, “but not dead.”

 

Harry had trouble understanding the croaking speech of the bird, and found himself crouching down, close enough to see little yellow fires dancing deep within the red eyes of the animal.

 

“Who are you? Can you help me?” he finally stuttered uncertainly.

 

The crow’s beak opened so that it almost looked like it was smiling. “Yessss,” it drew out. “Come.”

 

With that last cawed word, the white crow hopped backwards, back into the glow of the veil. “Come,” it repeated before jumping through the light and disappearing. Deciding his situation could hardly get any worse, Harry followed suit took a bold step into the light.

 

Immediately he was blinded by dazzling sunlight. He blinked and made out the silhouette of trees against his burning retinas. A bird was laughing nearby, shrieking and cawing madly until Harry finally regained control of his eyesight and stood straight to survey his surroundings. There was no sight of the passage he had just stepped through, only welcoming woodland, much like the one where he had died, only with the addition of bright sunlight pouring in between tall willowy trees. The albino crow perched on a silver birch and looked down at Harry with an expression of undeniable amusement.

 

“What is this?” Harry asked, trying, and failing, to find his pulse again.

 

“You’re dead, but not dead,” the crow repeated, cocking its head to one side. The large beak nodded to some distance place behind Harry. “The veil was open for you.”

 

Harry turned, but of course, the veil had evaporated the moment he had stepped through. “That veil… it’s a passage from death to life? Did Sirius fall through a reverse veil?”

 

The crow ignored his words and plucked an imaginary piece of fluff from its magnificent plumage. “Hogwarts. Take the trail to Hogwarts.”

 

As soon as these words had left its beak, the crow abruptly took off, winking at Harry with a single red eye before soaring out of sight high above the tree tops. In the wake of its path, the trees started leaning aside, parting to create a small path through the woods. After a brief hesitation, Harry stepped onto the path, feeling only slightly ridiculous as he thanked the trees. They fell back into place behind his steps making any idea of turning back impossible.

 

***

ABANDONED

// June 2002


End file.
